


Empty Night

by PaintedTombstone



Category: The Dresden Files (TV), The Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Alternate Universe - Wizards, Bisexual Female Character, Detectives, F/F, Flirting, Fluff, Lesbian Character, Questioning, Slow Burn, Vampires, Wizards
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:42:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25555270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaintedTombstone/pseuds/PaintedTombstone
Summary: There is no love for the White Council in Evelyn MacTalin’s heart. Her life is one of forced tolerance for them, and as long as she keeps up the charade, they pay the bills. In return, she takes up odd jobs that vary wildly from finding lost items to chasing down renegade serial killers.This time, it’s the latter, and Evelyn is unsure if she’ll make it out alive.When you dance with the Devil, you better know the steps; and Evelyn knows all too well the dangers of vampiric natures.[Written proceeding the events of Skin Game by Jim Butcher, main Book 15. No previous knowledge is needed to read this fic, but there may be spoilers for the series. Warnings will not be posted for them, read at your own discretion.][Thank you to my beta reader punnymoi!][I, PaintedTombstone, do not give my permission or consent for this fic to be posted elsewhere. Updates irregularly.]
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Female Character
Kudos: 1





	Empty Night

The sky was a bastard that day, but it worked in my favor. I don’t particularly like the sun, especially in the city; there’s something awful about the streets soaking up all that heat, the windows flashing white, the artificial shadows. Personal preference, sure, but still irritating. However, when hunting serial killer vampires, nuisances are the least of my worries. 

My name is Evelyn MacTalin, Druid and renowned astral navigator, professionally known as the Ruchtaíl. I didn’t pick the name, and it’s not something I can simply shed like a snakeskin. Those who request my services know the legend of the name, and that’s why they request me. Nobody comes calling to Evelyn, never will. And that’s fine. The services in question are those of the supernatural and unknown. All of my jobs come from the White Council, an organization I’m a reluctant member of. I go to the annual meetings like a good little puppet---in return, they pay the majority of my bills and generally leave me alone. 

My little cabin in the middle of nowhere has a beautiful view of the sunset through the trees, plenty of rooms for my planter boxes and fruit trees, and my chickens live obscenely lavish lives. When I’m not working odd jobs, I bake bread and can accompanying jams. Naturally, to protect that haven, I take any orders from the White Council extremely seriously, even when they involve visiting a crowded town.

The information from the White Council was, as usual, sparse. My leads consisted of various clippings from Colorado newspapers. Many contained warnings against going outside at night, even for men. The bodies were barely recognizable and difficult to ID, with some still labeled as Jane/John Doe. Details of the murders were omitted from the entries for violence, but I got a fairly clear picture of what happened. I wasn’t looking forward to seeing the carnage myself.

The warmth of the sun did not translate into the hospital waiting room. As with all medical centers, the aesthetic was one of bland neutrals and oddly framed photos mixed with PSAs. Despite the gentle autumn breeze outside, the AC was cranked to full. The room was fairly quiet, considering there was only a girl of about twelve and her father in the chairs. Her skin looked fairly greenish, like she might vomit at any moment. I strayed away from her, stifling a grimace. My trenchcoat flared dramatically behind me as I approached the check-in desk, boots thunking against the polished tile. 

“Excuse me?” I asked, my voice hoarse. Speaking isn’t really my strong suit, as I often go months without seeing another human being. The receptionist tore her eyes away from her computer, tiny warped rectangles appearing in her glasses. Her chestnut-colored hair was done up in a quick bun, held only by a claw hair clip. As her head bobbed to me, a few strands slipped out against her cheek. I cleared my throat and continued, fishing around in my coat.

“Private investigator Warren,” I explained, flashing a wallet containing my ID. “I was told I would have access to the morgues here.”

The receptionist nodded, responding in a practiced clipped tone. She turned back to her computer, tapping away for a moment as her eyes scrolled and flickered across the screen. Swiveling in her chair, she sorted through a nearby drawer before snatching a plastic-covered card between two fingers, extending it to me. I thanked her, clipping it to my chest before breezing towards the stairs.

Magical folk have…  _ issues _ with electronics. We play with a lot of energy at once and constantly exude an aura of it, which tends to mess with tech. Hospitals make me acutely aware of this fact, considering all of the life-sustaining machines just within my reach. It’s better just to avoid everything altogether, even though there are ways to hold it off. Thus, I take the stairs and wouldn’t be caught dead in an elevator.

Thankfully the morgue was only one floor down. I tapped the card on the black, boxy reader set on the outside of the door. It gave a pitiful cough and stopped blinking. All was not lost; the door let out a drained wail before  _ kachunking _ unlocked. I muttered an apology under my breath, adjusted my gloves, and moved in. The fact that it was the door and not the receptionist’s computer or someone’s life support was a welcome stroke of luck.

Like the rest of the hospital, the morgue was cold and clean. The air was more frigid, the space more grating, as examination tables and fridges gleamed under the harsh lighting. The area was a maze of windowed walls, most shielded with blinds. Quiet chatter was a gentle white noise, undercut by the clatter of tools. I greeted the lab tech organizing papers at the front desk, and was directed to a room a couple doorways down. Thanking him, I beelined to where he pointed me.

Blessedly, I had an empty stomach.

The carnage looked more like a twisted splay of elegant gardens than a body. Trees made of bone, splintered and smeared with red; ripples of a pathway carved in mottled entrails; bushes and fauna with indistinct piles of flesh. One doctor, clothed in scrubs, was lightly dusted with gore, gloves slick with slightly congealed blood. They held a bone saw in both hands, cocking their head at the sight before them. My stomach writhed and threatened to eject itself, a rolling sensation beginning at the back of my throat. I braced myself against the doorframe in, what I imagined to be, a casual biker pose rather than a queasy private investigator.

“Oh!” the doctor exclaimed. They set down the saw on a side table, removing their gloves with twin snaps. With a puff they plucked off the medical mask and gave me a wide grin. She was tall and pale-faced, eyes a shining blue. As she moved towards me, the scrubs shifted in a way that subtly displayed lean, but powerful, muscles. She held out one hand to me. “Doctor Konstance.”

“I…” my voice gurgled slightly and I swallowed. 

“Oh! Dear me, I apologize.” Konstance dropped her hand and hurried over to the corpse, hastily throwing a sheet over it. The jutting bones made an eerie, jagged shape, blots of blood slowly darkening some areas. I ripped my gaze away from it, gritting my teeth. Konstance darted over to another side table and pressed several pumps of hand sanitizer into her hands. “You’re the private investigator, correct?”

“Indeed I am,” I managed. I cleared my throat, removing myself from the wall and adjusting my coat accordingly. My stomach did several backflips and I strained to ignore it. “I’m here about the serial murders. I’m guessing you’re the lead doctor here?”

“Lead forensic mortuary, yes,” Konstance smiled broadly. “And you are?”

“Private investigator Warren. Pardon my reaction, must have been something I ate.”

Konstance stifled a snicker. “My apologies, investigator.”

“Introductions aside,” I continued, wincing. “If we could discuss the case… whatever you have now, suspects, motives, weapons, et cetera. You know the drill.”

“Of course.” The doctor rounded the side table to a tall filing cabinet that blended neatly with the rest of the wall. She drew out several drawers, flicking through a couple, before pulling out a thin manila folder. The file slapped onto one of the unoccupied examination tables, and the two of us gathered around it on opposing ends. Konstance opened it, revealing the scarceness within. 

Without my asking, she began to ritualistically describe the contents. Some were glossy photographs showcasing the scene itself, others uncomfortably close to the mangled corpses. The medical reports were a mess with crossed-out sections and one-word answers, John and Jane Doe labeling all of them. In every case, the body was mangled beyond identification, though roughly half of the victims’ heads were still attached. The cause of death varied from animal attack, to murder, to simply left blank. Konstance pointed to the bite and claw marks on the bones, suggesting animal consumption, though she was still searching for saliva samples. I studied those photos in particular, the taste in my mouth stale and rotting.

Part of me was still holding out for something other than a vampire. The other part of me, the logical side, knew that the teeth marks were a dead ringer for vampires. Even worse, the claw marks and manner of death indicated Black Court, and it wasn’t a leap to say I was highly outclassed. I knew that if Konstance ran the mark samples she would find no animal match, no human match. And as for the saliva samples, if she managed that, they would turn up nothing but questions. Frustrating, but an occupational hazard. I only hoped that she wouldn’t interrogate me too much on the matter.

Vampires fall into three Courts. Each Court has families of vamps who generally focus on one particular niche, giving the entire ordeal a strange, monarchy-like system. All vampires share the same general traits and vary only in how they get what they need and what company they keep. The core of vampire existence is the ‘Beast.’ Each Court has a certain way to feed their Beasts, some more forgiving than others. The Beast is a concept to some Courts, an actual resident creature in others. Either way, once this Beast is fed, the vamp is stronger physically and mentally; we’re talking speed, endurance, strength, perception, anything really. Using these abilities drains the Beast, of course, though it naturally degrades after time. Thus, the frequency of feedings. They are varied between Courts, of course, but directly proportional to how hard they are to kill. This is not accounting for the drug-like saliva every vamp exudes to paralyze its prey. It makes the experience much more pleasant for them if you stop struggling. 

The Red Court is the most common, in my experience, and the most widespread. Their Beast feeds on blood, just like the movies say. The hunger is more physical, in that their appearances as humans are really just a monkey suit for the real deal. Believe me, you don’t want to know what they look like underneath. They feed fairly frequently to keep up their powers but generally don’t kill, unless they’re  _ really _ hungry.

The White Court feeds on emotions; but make no mistake, they are still as deadly as the Red Court, maybe more so. Their influence is fueled by human impulse emotions; some families center on fear, anger, even lust. The White Court feeds on those emotions, which are ultimately connected to the victim’s soul. It’s made entirely of raw energy, coincidentally the same wellspring wizard’s draw from. They’re difficult to resist, with their saliva corrupting your mind to feel a certain way rather than simple paralysis. Their Beast is more of a state of mind, and they are the most ‘human’ of the vampire Courts.

The Black Court is the more gruesome of the bunch. They feed on the act of death and are more than capable of ripping people apart. Most of the Court are slain or sealed away, a decision made many years ago by the other Courts for the safety of their own clans. Those that remain rarely appear in the open, as their feeding habits consist of binging for a week or two and then disappearing for decades. They embody death itself, and are extremely difficult to kill.

When my brain came to the logical conclusion that the murderer was a Black Court vampire, I felt the overwhelming need to dig myself a cozy grave and stay there for the next century. It made me want to defy the White Council, considering it was well established that I didn’t do combat. No matter how I twisted it, I knew it was all going to end in a fire fight, culminating in the digestion of my intestines in some vamp. 

“Can I get photocopies of these?” I asked. Konstance looked at me for a moment, and I realized that in my drifting, I might have cut her off. But before I could apologize, she agreed and whisked away the file. She asked for the name of my hotel, and too embarrassed to tell her I was camping out in a nearby Walmart, I opted for picking it up in the next day or two. 

I said my thanks and goodbyes, and promptly left, thoughts storming above my head. 

When I stepped outside, the sun had dipped behind a cloud and a brisk wind swept through the streets. Crisp autumn air surrounded me, reminding me of its everlasting presence. I exhaled slowly, eyes closed. If it was the Black Court I was to face, so be it. Death is undesirable, but so is refusing work from the White Council. 

With deliberations in my heart, I made my way to the nearest street corner or bus stop. My coat flared in the wind, ginger curls dancing across my vision. I cut my own hair and have gotten fairly good at it. Not saying it looks professional, but better than most at-home stylists. Considering I have to use non-electric means, I declare myself victorious at every turn. It’s sliced at a downward angle, the back cut fairly close to my head, the sides just at my chin. My hair is so thick that it’s impossible to tell that I have an undercut on either side, considering it puffs up with the strength of pure Irish curl-determinism. I know it’s not necessarily fashionable, but to be frank, I’m a hermit and don’t give a shit. 

I finally found a city map after a while of searching. It was mid-afternoon now, the beginnings of after-work traffic trickling in. Getting my bearings, I turned dramatically down another street, running the street names in my head. Eagle-eyes trained on the shop doors, I prepared to leap across the pavement. My hands began to fiddle with pieces of stray strings in my pockets, and more than once I checked that no skin was showing from my gloves. Call me paranoid, but I had reason to be nervous. 

Wizards have an ability called a Soul Gaze. The phrase “the eyes are the windows of the soul” becomes more than a metaphor here. If you maintain eye contact with a wizard for even a few seconds, you will see the wizard’s soul, and in turn, they will see yours. It stays with you forever, crystal clear. The Gaze lays you bare, like someone hooked their fingers between your ribs and ripped you open like a book. It’s a truly horrifying and draining experience, and I’ve seen some bystanders faint or vomit after seeing a wizard’s soul. Worse, some beasties can be caught in a Soul Gaze as well. There have been cases where the wizard is institutionalized because of what they saw.

The caution a wizard bears is inhumane already, but it’s taken a whole new meaning with me. Ordinary wizards worry about Soul Gazes and unintentionally hexing out entire apartment complexes, not everyday existence. Thus the White Council, for the protection of other wizards, people, and myself, forcefully asked me to become the hermit I am today. It was an offer I couldn’t refuse.

Boulder’s public library was an impressive architectural display. One portion of it curled into a shining glass structure, shaped like a tulip. Against the approaching sunset, it was a serene flame in the sky. I had no idea what could be housed in this glass frame, and was momentarily frozen at the long entrance pathway. Besides that, it seemed to be a sturdy, red stone structure. Shaking my head, I made my way to the front entrance. 

There was no foot traffic through the doorway, to my considerable relief. I breezed through the automatic doors, straining my mind into a headache. Sometimes, if a wizard sets their mind to it, they can reign in the fritzing of technology, but it’s difficult to do. It usually takes prep or an enchantment of some sort, both of which I didn’t have. I could hold my breath and push my will to encompass my entire arcane being, but that’s as much as I could do. Even so, the first sliding door whined quietly, shuddered, and let out a cough of smoke. The second slowed on the reclosing, but eventually regained its gradual speed as I stepped further into the library. 

The interior was pleasantly semi-modern, with a color palette consisting of slate grey, cream white, and some muddled pops of color. It looked like someone designed it in the 80s with the intent to create a simultaneously futuristic and homey period piece. Somehow it worked, though it was a bit rough around the edges. I raised a hand in greeting to the older woman at the welcome desk, swerving to avoid the monitor and towards the stairs. The first floor, at least with my quick assessment, was mostly home to the videotapes, checkout counters, and kids’ sections. It was decidedly vacant there as well, though I couldn’t see through all of the shelves. 

The stairs were metal and made an odd, hollow sound when I rushed up them. It was enough to make me wince and slow my pace. At the landing was an intricate art piece set into the wall, one of swiss-cheesed steel that revealed a smoothly painted spring green background. It was nothing special and was probably replicated all throughout the library, but it gave me pause. For some reason, the speckled appearance enchanted me, and it took significant effort to pull away. 

Here on the second floor was the true library. The floor extended to either side, the view blocked sporadically with pillars of wood and shining steel bookshelves. Considering it was around dinnertime, there weren’t many patrons around here either. A librarian, an older woman with purple cat-eye glasses on a matching chain, nodded politely at me from a replicated desk from downstairs. I returned the gesture, steering clear of the computer she was clicking at, and dove into the stacks. 

Interspersed through the section were muted chairs and shining metal tables, each topped with a triangle pamphlet asking readers to clean up after themselves. Nestled into a corner were three sets of chess tables, the board engraved into the metal itself. Two were occupied by older couples playing in complete silence. As I passed by the erotica section, a younger man scurried out with two novels tucked into his jacket, face as red as a strawberry. A pair of teenagers clustered closely together in the adjoining romance section, giggling girlishly to each other as they traded off whispering lines. In the science fiction section, a bespectacled man cradled no less than six novels, each at least six hundred pages in length, yet hungrily scanned the shelves for more. 

All in all, a fairly normal library.

I rushed through the periodical’s section, snatching up past issues of the paper from several sources, and crashed into one of the chairs outside the history section. This particular chair was a cloudy grey and faced the floor-to-ceiling window that wrapped around the majority of the library. I set my stack on the metal side table, the surface not unlike the morgue’s examination tables. The evening’s sunset continued in spectacular fashion, blending every surface into a romantically golden color. Some buildings reflected it more flame orange and red, others a sparkling off-white. It made the city a gorgeous field of artificial autumnal blazes. I stared for a mite longer, taking a deep breath.

Then I began to study the gruesome murders that plagued those beautiful fires.


End file.
